


To Kill a Queen

by onceuponanobsessedfan



Category: Cinderella (2015)
Genre: Assassination, Attempted Murder, Cinderella - Freeform, Drama, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Fire, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kings & Queens, Love, Magic, Marriage, One True Pairing, Poisoning, Post-Wedding, Regicide, Romance, Thriller, True Love, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 10:53:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6003103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceuponanobsessedfan/pseuds/onceuponanobsessedfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Ella adjusts to life as a queen, her disenchanted stepmother plots with the Grand Duke to have Ella murdered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Wedding Night

 

                                        

* * *

 

Ella’s heart beat as fast as the flickering flames of the fireplace in the king’s bedroom suite. She sat on the edge of the large four-poster bed, marveling at the grandiosity of the room. Paintings of nobility hung on the wall with gilded frames, and porcelain vases sat on the mantle filled to the brim with pink roses from Kit’s secret garden. Ella touched the bedsheets beneath her, the finest Parisian silk, and a wind fluttered through the open balcony doors, causing the flames of the candelabras in the corners to dance.

She inhaled a shaky breath and smoothed her nightdress for the tenth time. She was waiting on her king— _her_ _Kit_ —to finish undressing and join her.

The buzz of the lavish wedding had yet to wear off for Ella. There had never been so much excitement in her life, not even that fateful ball where she and Kit danced for the first time. In the hours leading up to the ceremony, there was someone at her side constantly, fixing the hem of her dress, pining up her hair, or giving her flowers to smell and hold. But Ella didn’t mind the busyness. She smiled courteously and said her please and thank-yous. She may have been matriculating into a queen, but her honest country upbringing forbade her from being rude to anyone, especially the royal staff.

Ella wrung her hands, anxious to see her new husband. Throughout the incandescent joy of the day, the thought of the wedding night still stuck in the back of her mind like a spot of ink on a white dress. She told herself that there was nothing to fear. And why would there be? Kit was a kind and loving man, a man whose doting gaze left her breathless at times, and whose kiss she yearned for again the moment their lips parted.

Still, she knew little in the ways of men, especially the rules of consummation. Did a queen let her husband “take the reins” on the wedding night? Or was lovemaking an ever-equal endeavor, no matter one’s status?

Ella stood and paced around the room. She closed the balcony doors, the breeze causing her breasts to show prominently through her sheer nightgown. Ella crossed her arms over them, her hands shaking.

“Silly,” she said to herself. “I’m being so silly.”

Ella sat back down on the bed. The fireplace hypnotized her, clouding her thoughts for a bit until—

The door to the suite opened. Kit entered in a white night shirt and matching knickers, his hair tousled from a day filled with dancing and laughter. Ella instinctively bowed.

Kit laughed and said, “Surely you’re not bowing for _me_.”

Ella rose and smiled, her cheeks burning. “And old habit, I’m afraid.” She eyed her husband up and down. He was handsome even in his undergarments—even more so, Ella ventured, without the glitz of his royal uniforms. He stood before her as bare and vulnerable as Ella had ever seen a man, yet he smiled as though they were still in the ballroom with their guests.

“Please have a seat,” he gestured.

Ella obeyed, her eyes glued to her new husband. She couldn’t stop staring at the hair on his arms, the patch of fur on his chest visible from the v of his shit. He, in turn, kept his ocean eyes on her face, smiling as lovingly as the first time he had ever met her.

Kit sat next to his wife. A beat of silence followed, then nervous laughter from them both. The air was thick with apprehension, neither of them knowing how to begin or what to say on this monumental night.

Ella swallowed hard and started with, “The ceremony was breath-taking.”

“It was, indeed,” Kit agreed hurriedly. “The church was . . .” he shook his head, lost for the word. “Grand. Was it not?”

“Yes, the finest,” Ella said, nodding.

Another silence spread throughout the room. Ella clasped her hands together so Kit wouldn’t see them shaking. But nothing got past his keen, attentive eyes. He reached out slowly and took her hand, kissing the knuckle.

“Are you well?” he asked.

Ella paused before answering. If she said “no,” it was a half-lie, and she didn’t want to begin her marriage with deceit. But a firm “yes” was also not quite the truth. She was nervous but also excited, frightened and exhilarated all at once. How could she possibly tell Kit without dulling his spirits?

“Truthfully?”

Kit nodded. “Yes, please.”

“I’m . . . a bit at a disadvantage.”

Kit tilted his head to the side in confusion. “How so, my love?”

Ella smoothed her night dress with her other hand, then glanced back at the empty bed. Kit picked up on her apprehension, then nodded.

“Yes. _That_.” His smile faded, but only slightly. He worried about his choice of words, of upsetting his new bride or saying the wrong thing. But he had to know. “Are you at _all_ familiar with . . . with the company of a man?”

Ella blushed again and lowered her eyes. “Well, um . . . not in practice, of course. But my friend, Madeline—she was a cook at my father’s house—she told me a few things about . . . well, about a woman’s wedding night.”

Kit chuckled. He was grateful for her honesty. “Was there any cause for alarm?”

“Oh, no.” Ella assured, looking worriedly at her king. “I never thought—that is, I’m sure you won’t—”

Kit placed a hand on his wife’s cheek, stroking just under her eye with his thumb. “You needn’t worry, my darling. I have no expectations or demands for tonight. I only want to love you . . . in any way you wish to be loved.”

Ella smiled slowly. Her hands stopped shaking. How could she even think there would be a moment of discomfort, when her husband was so kind and gentle and understanding? It didn’t occur to Ella that he might be as clueless as her when it came to intimacy. All the jewels and privileges in the world couldn’t make him knowledgeable about the ways of a woman, and though plenty had tossed him a flirty glance at the ball, Ella doubted he was the type of man to take a woman before his wedding night.

She placed her hand over the one caressing her cheek. “My Kit,” she murmured.

“My queen,” he replied, grinning. He leaned in and kissed her softly on the lips.

Ella’s heart beat frantically like the wings of a bird in the paper cage of her chest. A sigh escaped from deep within her as she allowed Kit’s tongue to brush ever-so-gently against her bottom lip.

The parted, both of them dizzy and numb with pleasure. As Kit removed his hand from her face, Ella inhaled deeply, steeled herself, and slipped her nightgown off her shoulders.

_Courage, courage, courage . . ._

“I’m ready,” she said.

*             *             *

A few miles outside of the palace, the den of Cinderella’s father’s estate was lit only by the fireplace. Drisella stared wistfully out the window, the glow of the king’s castle visible just above the treetops. Her sister, Anastasia, wept on the chaise lounge by the fireplace, her otherwise pretty face crinkled in a horrid, ugly way as mascara ran down her cheeks.

The royal wedding had been an affair where all of the countrymen were invited—all but the Tremaine family. That meant no fancy dresses, no bowing, no chocolates or roast goose or eligible nobles to swoon over. Instead, their mother insisted they hole up in the house, for none of them could bare to show their faces in public, anyway. They were the dregs of society now, outwitted by a simple-minded girl with a mysterious glass slipper. It was all too much for them to bare.

“I wonder what they’re doing now,” Drisella thought aloud.

“It’s their wedding night, you fool!” Anastasia wailed. “What do you _think_ they’re doing?” She buried her head in the pillow of the chaise again and cried loudly.

Drisella rolled her eyes and stuck her fingers in her ears. “Would you stop it?” she yelled. “You sound like a dog!”

“Oh, shut up!” Anastasia threw the pillow at her sister. “Don’t you understand? We’re ruined! While that cow gets to live in luxury, we have to live in this hovel and . . . and . . .” Anastasia’s face scrunched up. “MAKE OUR OWN BREAKFAST!” She flailed against the chaise, kicking her feet and arms like a child throwing a fit.

“Calm yourself!”

The stern, cold voice stopped the two young girls. They looked at the doorway and saw their mother in the frame, a glass of liquor in hand, her flaming red hair undone and her dress askew at the shoulders. She sauntered into the room, her icy clue eyes traveling from daughter to daughter with a sneer.

“Mother,” Anastasia sniffled, “what’s to become of us?”

Lady Tremaine approached her daughter, grabbed her by the ear, and forced her to her feet. “An orphanage, if you don’t stop your blubbering!”

She let go of her daughter, finished her drink, and threw the glass into the fireplace.

Drisella stayed by the window where it was safer. The last time Mother was so ornery, their father had died—their _real_ father, an idiot of a man—and Mother nearly tore their chalet in Grupsburg apart looking for hidden bank notes. But their father had left them nothing. And with that cinder wench having married the prince, they would have nothing once again.

Lady Tremaine leaned against the writing desk with one hand and touched her forehead with the other. “I should have cut one of your toes off to fit that blasted slipper.”

The sisters looked at one another. “She means _you_ ,” they both said at once, pointing.

“Oh, do stop talking,” Lady Tremaine sighed.

She sat down on the chaise by the fire, tired and dizzy. She could feel a blackness growing inside of her like a poisonous weed, it’s tendrils wrapping around her heart the moment that girl left with the prince. Cinderella’s last words haunted her— _“I forgive you.”_ Forgave her for what? For putting a roof over her head? For feeding her? For letting her eat their scraps, scraps any beggar would gladly kill for?

_Forgiveness_. It was a distasteful word. Cinderella could never be forgiven for what she had done—deceiving them, stealing the prince, leaving them to rot in this dump of a house for the rest of their days with no prospects. _Forgiveness_. Who could ever forgive such an ugly, vile creature? The weed strengthened in Lady Tremaine’s chest and tightened around her heart.

Suddenly, a knock sounded at the front door.

The three women froze and looked towards the entrance. Who could be calling at such a late hour? A beggar asking for bread? A neighbor come to gush about the royal wedding? Perhaps it was even Cinderella, herself, come to beg them on their knees for a second chance, to whisk them away to the palace and let stay?

Lady Tremaine held a hand out to her daughters, dabbed her smudged lipstick from the corner of her mouth, and stood to get the door. Waiting on the other side was the Grand Duke, dressed not in the royal colors or even white to celebrate the wedding, but in ominous black tones with a great dark cloak to hide his frame.

“Good evening, madam,” he said.

Lady Tremaine blinked. The Grand Duke. Perhaps they really were going to be taken to the palace. She motioned for him to come inside and said cautiously, “To what do we owe the pleasure, Your Grace?”

The Duke entered the house and took his cloak off, draping it over his arm. “There’s no need to stand on ceremony with me, madam.” He entered the den and eyed the two young girls. They stared back curiously. He turned to Lady Tremaine and said, “I have a proposition for you and your family.”

Lady Tremaine’s mouth flew open and she held her hands together. It was finally happening. Even though that awful cinder wench had gotten the prince, the Duke would surely see to it that Anastasia and Drusilla were married off to noble men. It may not have been their original agreement, but men were soft and stupid—they changed their minds for beautiful women as often as most people changed their stockings.

“Why, Your Grace . . .” Lady Tremaine could barely contain her smile. “I’m most pleased you’re still agreeable about marrying off my daugh—”

The Grand Duke held up a hand for silence. “This is a different matter, entirely.” He glanced at Anastasia and Drusilla. “Perhaps your daughters could give us the room to speak?”

Lady Tremaine closed her gaping mouth and nodded. “Of course, Your Grace.” She nodded to Drusilla. “Fetch the Duke a cup of tea.”

“Me?” Drusilla whined. “But I don’t—”

“Anastasia, help your sister.”

“But mother—”

“Now!” Lady Tremaine barked. The girls jumped and hurried out of the room to the scullery, pushing each other and grumbling along the way. Lady Tremaine smiled politely at the Duke once more. “Please have a seat,” she offered.

He sat on the chaise and she joined him promptly. “You are aware of my disdain for the servant girl who has married the prince, yes?”

“As I’m sure you’re aware of mine,” the Lady agreed.

“The prince is a fool,” the Duke continued. “A country girl is not a suitable choice to run a country. The very idea mocks our kingdom and weakens our resolve.”

“Quite right, Your Grace.”

The Grand Duke looked at Lady Tremaine intently. “What I’m proposing is treason,” he mumbled. “But I’d rather have a rope around my neck than see that . . . that _thing_ share a throne with the prince.”

Lady Tremaine’s intrigued face softened. No longer was this a conversation of marriages or dowries or birthrights. She had a feeling this moment between them would be the start of something important, a chapter of history itself being written in hushed whispers and dying firelight. She imagined this was how men felt on the eve of battle, with blood coursing through their veins like liquid steel. It excited her in a way she never felt possible.

“What are you suggesting, Your Grace?”

The Duke glared at Lady Tremaine, weighing her reaction thus far. She was a conniving woman, to be sure, and he was aware of her mutual hatred for the country girl. But could she be trusted? Did she have the brains and the wherewithal to go through with what he was asking? One wrong move could land them both on the guillotine. But he was first and foremost thinking of his country, of its reputation. No sane person could fault him for wanting the best for this land, which was why the prince was so foolish for marrying that servant in the first place. He was mad. And the Duke was merely correcting the boy’s mistake.

He had come this far. He had to go further.

The Duke leaned in and whispered in Lady Tremaine’s ear, “We must kill the queen.”


	2. The Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little NSFW smut in the this chapter.

                                           

* * *

Ella awoke to the sound of birds outside of her window. For a moment, she thought she might be back in her father’s house, alone in the attic—having never gotten married, never gone to the ball, never meeting the prince. But a hand slid around her waist and Ella smiled, remember the details of last night as though it were an otherworldly dream. The exhilaration of lying on her back, Kit’s hands gently caressing her skin. The feather-light touch of his lips against hers. The sharp pain then subsequent waves of pleasure as he finally took her maidenhood with breathless declarations of love.

Ella opened her eyes. She thought her mouth might crumble right off her face from smiling too much. The morning sun shone warmly through the curtains, filling the room with a dull golden hue. Ella could smell the last dying embers in the fireplace and was transported back to the hearth in the scullery of her father’s home. But these memories, though filled with abuse and heartache, did not sadden her anymore. They were the prelude to her new life, a swelling musical overture before the grand curtain lifted to reveal a new and wonderful world.

Ella turned her head and saw her husband sleeping next to her on his stomach.  She traced her finger up the forearm that lay across her belly, then stroked his hair with the back of her hand.

Kit opened his eyes slowly and smiled when he saw his wife. “Good morning,” he uttered.

His breath left something to be desire, but Ella didn’t care. She was too taken by the brilliant blue hue of his eyes and his musky scent of sweat and lovemaking. “Good morning, my Kit,” she replied.

Kit rolled over onto his side, propped his elbow on the pillow, and resting his head in his hand. He stroked his beautiful wife’s face with his other hand. “How do you feel?” he asked.

Ella’s grin widened, a feat she didn’t think was possible. “I feel as though I could fly,” she responded. She nestled against her husband’s chest and he kissed the top of her head. “I worry that this is all a dream. That you’re but a ghost haunting my father’s attic.”

Kit chuckled. “I assure you, this is all quite real.” He kissed her head again, then laid on his back and held his wife against his breast. The feeling of her naked body against his, tense and quivering last night as they made love, was now warm and supple against him like the pillow under his head. Kit ran his fingers lightly down Ella’s bare back. She sighed contently.

“What shall we do our first day as husband and wife?” the new queen asked.

“I had hoped we could stay in bed all day,” Kit replied.

Ella raised her head from her husband’s chest and gave him a quizzical look. “All day?” she asked. “I’ve never done such a thing.”

“Neither have I,” Kit admitted. “But we’re the king and queen. We can do whatever we like.”

Ella giggled. A surge of confidence ran through he, and she decided that if this was, indeed, a dream, she would savor every moment of it and make it her own. “In that case . . .”

Ella climbed on top of her husband and straddled his hips. She was fully naked on him, and he below her. Though she had to resist the urge to pull the sheets over and cover herself up, Ella was still delighted that the mere presence of her naked body on top of his caused the king to . . . well, stand at attention. She looked down coyly at his growing member and blushed.

Kit placed his hands on his wife’s hips and stared up at her adoringly. “It’s incredible,” he sighed.

“What is?” Ella asked. He wasn’t looking at her breasts or her belly, or even the triangular patch of hair between her legs, but directly at her face.

“You become even more beautiful every moment I look at you,” Kit said.

Ella smiled and lowered her head.

Kit reached up a hand, touched her cheek, and lowered his wife down for a kiss. She responded positively, her breasts pressed against him, her hips grinding eagerly against his manhood. Kit wrapped his strong arms around her back, turned her over so their positions were switched, and made love to his wife breathlessly.

“Ella . . .” he purred, thrusting in and out.

Her moans encouraged him, rang in his ears as beautifully as church bells. Ella clutched the back of Kit’s head as though she would fall off the earth, then buried her face in his shoulder to keep from moaning too loudly.

Kit discouraged this by running a hand through her hair, beckoning Ella to look at him. “It’s all right,” he panted, keeping the pace of this thrusts constant. “I want to hear my wife. Please.”

Ella let out a guttural groan as he thrust harder, deeper, hitting that delightful spot within her she never even knew about. “Kit!” she cried, digging her fingernails into his back. She worried this might hurt him, but he only pumped faster.

At last he came, gritting his teeth as he moaned like a primal beast. Ella emitted a soft cry as she felt her own spirit slip away. Her privates throbbed as the king’s seed filled her up and she gladly would have given her own life if it meant she could stay attached to him like this forever.

Kit slipped out of her and rolled onto his back, sweat glistening all over his body. He was breathless and flush, his hair even more a mess than last night. Ella giggled, leaned over, and kissed her husband. He moaned and touched her forehead with his when they parted.

“I love you,” he said, regaining his breath. “I love you more than anything.”

“And I, you,” Ella whispered. She kissed him again, then nuzzled against his body as comfortably as she did by the fire in her father’s house. And just like that fire, she felt completely at home.

*             *             *

As hard as they tried, Ella and Kit eventually did leave the bedroom that day. Ella smiled cheekily as her handmaidens dressed her, reveling in the lovemaking she experienced with her husband. Kit dressed separately, an endeavor all its own with buttons and collars and belts that held swords. Ella didn’t envy his routine.

The maids were all sweet and caring, gushing to Ella about how radiant she looked and how pleased they were to have her as their queen.

Ella remembered all of their names meticulously. There was Amelia, an auburn-haired girl with freckles who laced up her corset. There was Imogene, an older woman with silver hair who made the bed. Twin teenagers, Dagny and Emmy, helped curl the queen’s hair and pin it up fashionably. They were dark-haired beauties with emerald eyes, who giggled every so often as though they were speaking a secret, invisible language between them.

“May we escort you to the dining hall?” Dagny asked. Ella could tell it was her because she had a bump on the bridge of her nose, whereas Emmy’s was smooth.

“Yes,” Emmy chimed, “it would be our pleasure, Your Highness.”

The rest of the maids had left the room with a smile and a bow, but the twins were far more eager to see their queen taken care of.

“Actually,” Ella said, “I had hoped I could tour the halls by myself for a bit.”

The twins blinked at her, utterly confused.

Ella’s smile twitched. She knew that being queen meant there were certain customs and protocols she had to follow, but if she couldn’t roam her own castle without feeling like a fool, Ella worried about her future as a monarch.

“It’s just,” Ella continued, “there’s been so much excitement lately, I thought I could have an hour or so to myself. Is . . . is that all right?”

Emmy and Dagny looked at each other, their faces struck with fear.

“Oh, of course, Your Majesty!” Dagny said.

“Yes, of _course_!” Emmy concurred.

Dagny touched her chest and said, “To think you would ask _us_ for permission to—” She looked at her sister again, and the twins instantly bowed.

“Forgive us,” they said in unison.

Ella’s heart raced. She certainly didn’t mean to upset the girls, let alone force them to feel as though they had to bow.

“Please,” Ella said. “There’s nothing to forgive. Please stand.”

The twins rose slowly, their faces beet red. Ella thought she should give them something useful to do, lest they fall into despair for having possibly offended the queen. She said, “Could you please have the king notified that I’ll be late for breakfast? Only twenty minutes or so.”

The twins curtseyed and said together, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you.” Ella smiled. Then, to cement the awkward rift, she kissed each girl on the cheek. “I’m so very grateful to have you as my new friends. I hope you’ll both dine with the king and I someday.”

All color drained from the twins faces. They stared, slaw-jawed, at their queen, then fumbled another curtsey and a bewildered, “Yes, ma’am.”

Ella laughed softly and left the bedchamber, gliding down the hall in her new pink dress as though she were hovering on a cloud. A part of her felt she was.

Ella walked the grand, gilded halls of the east wing of castle, marveling at the marble pillars, the colorful oil paintings, and the smooth stone carvings of cherubs and horses. Every so often, a guard standing at attention at a door would bow dutifully, and Ella would wave at them and say hello.

Maids and butlers flitted about, cleaning and carrying and chatting with guards. Noblemen talking business in the foyers would paused and bow to the royal.

“Are you having a pleasant day?” she would ask them.

“Yes, my queen,” they would respond.

Ella sang softly as she peeked around doorways and around pillars. She plucked a thorn-less white rose from a red vase in one of the libraries and stuck it behind her ear. Ella twirled around the library, breathing in the musty scent of old books. Dust fell along the beams of light that shone in the room. She glanced out the window at the gardens before her, just a fraction of the land the castle sat upon.

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

Ella gasped at the voice and spun around. The Grand Duke had entered the room, smiling as though he had just heard an unfunny joke and didn’t want to appear rude.

“Oh,” Ella sighed. “Forgive me, sir—”

“You Majesty,” the Duke said, bowing. “I’m the one who should be forgiven for startling you.” He straightened and eyed the queen up and down. “Are you lost? This palace can be a maze at times.”

“No, I was just . . .” Ella chuckled to herself. “I was only looking around. Did my husband—”

“The king has nothing to do with my whereabouts,” the Duke admitted. “I was merely passing by and thought you might . . .” He paused, taking a few steps closer to the new royal. “I feel I owe you an apology, Your Majesty. Before the wedding, my temperament towards you had been . . . less than gentlemanly. Please forgive me.”

Ella clasped her hands together. “Oh,” was all she could say.

It was true, the Grand Duke had been unpleasant to her when she was still just a country girl. But Ella told herself he had just been cautious for the sake of the prince. She didn’t fault anyone for being wary about the fate of the kingdom, even if her and Kit’s love was true and honest. Love itself may not be an easy thing to convince the world that the kingdom was in good hands, but Ella vowed as queen to make it her most important mission. They would rule with courage, kindness, and above all, love. Some hearts, like the Grand Duke’s may have just taken longer to melt than others.

The Duke smiled painfully again and glanced around the room. There was something Ella didn’t like in his face. She recognized it in her stepmother those many months as her servant—a cold, capricious demeanor, as though she were merely an object one had to begrudgingly step around to get to something. Ella was the most powerful one in the room, yet she felt as insignificant as the dust on the books.

“Well, Your Majesty,” the Duke finally said, “may I escort you to the king?” He held out his arm.

Ella glanced at it, then smiled politely and held her head up to assure him she was just fine on her own. “I can manage my own way, Your Grace. But I thank you for your kindness.”

The word “kindness” was like a pinprick to the Duke’s face. He flinched, then lowered his arm and bowed curtly. “As you wish, Your Highness.” He turned on his heel to leave, then paused. The Duke then said, “I would be cautious of roaming the halls by myself, if I were you, Your Highness. These grounds can be dangerous to a woman who doesn’t know her way.”

Ella’s heart thumped loudly. She was sure the Duke could hear the blood pounding in her ears. She told herself there was nothing to be afraid of, that the Duke was merely extending a courteous reminder for the sake of her well-being. But the _way_ he said it felt ominous, like a roll of thunder before a great downpour.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Ella said.

The Duke glanced over his shoulder and offered Ella a smile—though this time, it was different. It was a smile that slithered off of his face and snaked its way into Ella’s stomach, laying coldly like a dormant viper. She smiled back nervously.

The Duke exited, leaving a chilly breeze in his wake. Ella turned to the window for warmth from the sun. She closed her eyes, cursing herself for being so paranoid and silly and ridiculous. There was nothing to fear anymore—no more stepmothers or harassment, no more scraps at the table or ripped dresses and lonely nights by the dying fireplace. She was a queen now, with a husband who adored her and new friends, _real people_ , to talk to.

_Courage, courage, courage . . ._

Ella opened her eyes slowly and looked down at the stately gardens. As a wind blew through the brush and trees, Ella could swear she saw a shock of fiery red hair from her stepmother glinting between two rose bushes. She blinked and the phantom was gone.


	3. To Face a Demon

                                      

* * *

A few days after the wedding, Ella made a decision.

Though she knew the image of her stepmother (or, at least her red hair) in the garden was simply a hallucination, it kept her awake at night with concern. Not concern for her safety, per say, more like concern for her soul. Ella didn’t feel as though she owed her stepmother anything, not after the way she treated her after her father died. But she could not in good conscience rule the kingdom without first attempting to make amends to the one person who truly hated her.

Ella asked the Captain and a few guards to escort her to her father’s house while Kit was trapped in a meeting all day with a viscount from neighboring Cœur de Foret. The Captain obliged warmly, though Ella could tell he was apprehensive for her sake to see Lady Tremaine again.

They rode to the house with as little fanfare as possible, the Captain taking the lead while a dozen guards followed Ella behind. She clutched the reins of her horse tightly, her yellow and green dress stiff and itchy. As they approached the house, Ella took off her bonnet and dismounted from her horse on her own. She disliked being fussed over, not when she was perfectly capable handling a steed.

The Captain got off his horse at once and the guards halted. “Your Majesty,” he said, “allow me.” He offered Ella his arm, but she shook her head politely.

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.” She looked up at her father’s home, a wave of longing and fear washing over her. “I’d like to go in alone, if that’s all right.”

The Captain glanced at house, then back at his queen. “It _is_ ultimately your decision, Your Majesty, but . . . I do advise against it. And, not to speak for the king, but I’m sure he would, as well.”

Ella lowered her eyes. He was right, of course. A queen going anywhere outside of the palace unescorted was not only scandalous, but dangerous. The kind Captain was doing his job well, but Ella was eager to meet her stepmother one last time without the influence of steel.

“Please,” she implored. “I’ll only be a moment.”

The Captain eyes nervously watched the queen as she took two rectangular boxes from one of the guardsmen. “We’ll be waiting for you right, here, Your Majesty,” he said, bowing.

“I know,” Ella said, grinning at him as a thank you. She hitched the boxes under both arms and walked slowly up the drive to her father’s house.

It was amazing how little everything had changed, and yet how different it all seemed now. She had never noticed the chipped paint on the left window outside of the den, nor did she pay mind to the crooked shingle by the tower where her room in the attic was. She remembered laughter and sunshine, of tea with Father and needlework with Mother, but being in a castle for nearly a week opened Ella’s eyes to how truly modest they lived.

Ella drew in a deep, calming breath, then knocked on the door. It opened instantly, with Drusilla and Anastasia clunking into one another as they curtseyed.

“Ella!” Drusilla cried.

“Your Majesty!” Anastasia yelped.

“We are most humbled to have you in our . . . in _your_ home.”

They made an awkward path for Ella to enter, their bodies still crumpled in a formal greeting. Anastasia closed the door and called for her mother.

Whatever good spirits Ella had left dissipated when Lady Tremaine’s name was called out. Regardless, she forced a smile and held out the long white boxes. “I brought these for you. As . . . as a peace offering, I suppose.”

The sisters abandoned all propriety and ripped the boxes away from Ellla. They tore the ribbons off and both gasped when they saw what was inside each container.

“Parasols!” Drusilla gasped.

“And lace!” Anastasia cried.

“You remembered!” they both said.

Ella held her bonnet at her front for comfort. So far, things weren’t as awkward as she anticipated, but there was still a chance her mean-spirited stepsisters could forget themselves and bark at her as though she had never become queen.

Instead, the two women bowed again on shaking legs, their tight ringlets nearly touching the floor.

“Be careful, girls. You’ll break your backs that way.”

Ella’s heart seized in her chest at the sound of the voice. She slowly looked up at the spiral staircase where her stepmother was descending. Despite a few dark circles under her eyes and considerably less makeup, she didn’t look much different than the last time Ella saw her—same cold, steel-blue eyes, same sneering mouth and long, claw-like fingers. Any other person would have regarded her as a great beauty, but her ugliness on the inside crippled her on the outside, revealing her for the monster Ella knew she really was.

Anastasia and Drusilla rose from their curtsey and turned to their mother. “Look what Ella brought us!” Drusilla said.

Anastasia stepped in front of her sister. “Lace and parasols! Just like—”

“Go to the garden, girls,” Lady Tremaine said. Her voice was low and calm, almost sing-songy as she smirked at Ella. She reached the last step and one look to her daughters was enough to shoo them to the backyard.

Lady Tremaine approached Ella with slow, calculated steps. She continued to smirk as though she knew a secret Ella did not. She paused and looked the queen up and down with disdain as though she were still a common country girl.

“I’ll not bow,” Lady Tremaine said.

Ella swallowed hard, her heart pounding. She kept her head high and nodded. “I don’t expect you to.”

A deadly pause hung in the air. Ella thought she might choke on thick unpleasantness of it. Finally, Lady Tremaine said, “What business does a queen have here?”

Ella finally broke eye contact with her stepmother. She looked at the bonnet in her hands and said, “I didn’t come to quarrel. I only came to gather something of my father’s.”

“And what could that be, I wonder?” Lady Tremaine tilted her head to the side and grinned wider. It was amazing how soft her voice was, yet how frightening it made Ella feel. “Not that pathetic little twig your father plucked before he died?” The fair Lady laughed as softly as a song. “I turned that into kindling long ago.”

Ella blinked as hot, itchy tears sprung in her eyes. The Captain was right—it was a mistake to come here and think she could make any kind of amends with this cruel and heartless woman.

Lady Tremaine’s smile faded as though she could read Ella’s thought. “I know my words are punishable by death . . .” She inched closer to the queen, towering in front of the petite blonde like a menacing stone statue. “But we both know you’re far too _kind_ for such un-pleasantries.”

Lady Tremaine snorted and turned away towards the study. “That was always your weakness, Cinderella. _Kindness_.” She spat the word out as if it were a hot ember. “And I detest anyone who gains anything from such weakness. It’s deceitful.”

Ella followed her stepmother into the study. “Kindness in the face of cruelty is not weakness. It’s courage.”

Lady Tremaine rolled her eyes. “Still going on about courage and kindness, then? That’s why you’re unfit to be a queen, Cinderella. People respond to fear, not flights of fancy.”

Ella lowered her eyes again. Her stepmother’s words were like barbs, piercing her skin over and over again. She felt exactly as she did before she met the prince—utterly small and desperate to be accepted.

But then she thought of Kit. She thought of his smile in the mornings when he had just woken up, of his impossibly blue eyes drinking in every single part of her, of his hands caressing her hair and his lips whispering, “I love you.”

Ella thought of him and her courage returned.

“I won’t disturb you again,” Ella stated, raising her head. “You will be allowed to stay in my father’s home on the condition that you keep it well.” She approached her stepmother with the same cool, determined gait. “I’ll not answer your pleas for money. I’ll not marry your daughters off to noblemen. But I will treat you with respect, and you’ll do the same for me. We will not be friends. But we will also not be enemies.” Ella extended her hand for the fair Lady to shake. “We shall part as mutual acquaintances.”

Lady Tremaine raised her hooded gaze to the young queen. For a moment, she looked exactly like a demon, her eyes void of any sympathy or compassion. It filled Ella with such coldness, she shuddered. Then her stepmother did something Ella never would have expected—she took her hand, kissed it palm-down, then knelt all the way to the floor with her head down.

“My queen,” she said.

Ella hardly knew what to do. She slowly withdrew her hand from Lady Tremaine’s grasp and back away, watching as her stepmother stayed on the floor with her head tilted as though she were in prayer. Ella left her father’s house quietly. Had she stayed a moment longer, she would have seen Lady Tremaine smirking deviously, her long lips curled upwards like that of a mad devil who held fire in the palm of their hand.

*             *             *

“You should have told me you were going back to that house,” Kit said, pacing the bedchamber as he unbuttoned his shirt cuffs.

Ella sat on the bed, already stripped down to her nightdress. It was nearly midnight now, and all day she had been roaming the halls and speaking to nobles in a clouded daze. She couldn’t keep her thoughts from wandering back to her stepmother, how oddly it was that she bowed to Ella, how frightening and almost murderous her gaze felt.

“I’m sorry,” Ella said. “It turned out to be a foolish endeavor, anyway.”

Kit stopped and looked at his wife. “Did she say something to you? Did she hurt you?”

Ella smiled softly at his concern. “No. It doesn’t matter now.” The queen’s eyes lowered and her smile faded.

Kit knelt before his wife and met her gaze. “She can’t hurt you anymore. You’re safe here. You’re loved.”

Ella beamed again. She touched her husband’s cheek and said, “I know.”

Kit smiled and kissed his wife. “Now into bed with you,” he said, winking. “You and I have unfinished business from last night.”

Ella giggled and crawled into bed. When Kit finished undressing, he slipped under the sheets with her and grabbed a book from under his pillow. He handed it to his wife and Ella removed the ribbon holding her page in place. Kit curled up against his wife’s chest and she held him, stroking his hair as she read from _The Fallen Fire_.

“’And the little beggar looked up from her empty coffer and knew she had made a mistake. For the silver she had gathered was gone and the haggard spirit peered down at her with an ominous smile . . .’”

*             *             *

As Ella read, Lady Tremaine sat naked at her vanity mirror, staring deeply into her own reflection for wisdom and guidance.

_‘You have made a deal you do not understand,’ said the spirit._

Lady Tremaine struggled to listen to her daughters in the next room. They had no inkling of her or the Grand Duke’s plan. They were far too stupid and untrustworthy to be let in on the intrigue.

_‘Please,’ said the beggar. ‘Does your immortal soul have no compassion?’_

Lady Tremaine took up the pair of golden scissors on her vanity desk and looked at her reflection in the blades.

_‘Compassion?’ the ghoul echoed. ‘Not for those so easily fooled.’_

Cinderella’s stepmother recalled what the prince’s Captain had said to her that fateful day in the attic—“Are you an empress? A saint? A deity?”

  _No_ , the Lady thought, smiling. _I’m a demon._

She opened the blades of the scissors and cut her long hair off, the snippets of red tresses falling to the wooden floor like rogue flames.


	4. The Bath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter, but I wanted to give you guys some fluff/smut before things got too serious. Thank you so much for reading and commenting! I love you all!

                                       

* * *

 

When Ella was younger, she heard her father reference the “honeymoon phase” in regards to his late wife. At the time, ten-year-old Ella didn’t know what that meant, but she wracked her brain for hours in the study trying to figure it out. Did it have to do with the phases of the moon? Was one’s marital status dictated by night sky? Was “honey” a euphemism for sweetness, or something more . . . adult?

Years later, she finally understood. And now that she was a married woman, Ella could say with confidence that in the three weeks she had been married to Kit, they were still reveling in their honeymoon phase.

It wasn’t always how they made love or stole kisses in the hallways that made her feel as if it were still her wedding day. Sometimes it was the simple act of Kit holding her at night that made her heart sing, or the way he held his arm out for her as they strolled the gardens, or even an innocent, flirtatious glance at the dining table as a noble droned in his ear.

Kit’s thoughtfulness looked easy--so easy, that Ella wondered if she wasn’t doing enough sometimes to show how much she loved him. One night, after a long day of signing documents and editing speeches, Ella called for Dagny and Emmy to draw a bath.

The bathtub itself was so expansive, it has its own room down the corridor from the king and queen’s chambers. The tub was made of polished rose marble, set beside a large lattice windows with lace curtains. A fire roared beneath it to keep the water warm, and the finest salts and oils of every exotic scent sat nearby in crystal vials.

Ella had the twin maids light the candelabras in the room, as well as the chandelier above. They filled the tub and sprinkled lavender oil and rose petals on the surface. Ella, meanwhile, dressed down to her powder blue robe and undid her hair. When the washroom was ready, Ella thanked the twins and asked them to send for the king. They bowed, knowing smiles on their cheeky faces.

Ella sat on the edge of the expansive tub and felt the water. When Kit finally entered, she stood and smiled. “Hello.”

The king’s mouth hung open. He was sweaty from an evening of fencing, a sport he indulged in to unwind after a long day. The king smiled. “Did you do all of this?”

“I had some help,” Ella admitted. She glided towards her husband, her silk robe billowing behind her. She kissed him lightly and took his hand. “You need a good soaking.”

Kit laughed and wasted no time unbuttoning his fencing jacket. Ella helped him undress, and endeavor that would have taken him twice as long without her help. When he was finally free of his restrictive layers, Kit planted a kiss on the nape of Ella’s neck.

“What did I do to deserve such a treat?” he murmured.

“Should there be a reason?” Ella asked.

Kit raised a brow, grinning. “Being handsome and charming is certainly reason enough.”

Ella giggled and rolled her eyes. “Come on.” She turned from her husband and slipped the robe from her shoulders. She could feel her husband’s eyes travelling along her naked backside. Ella stepped into the warm tub and Kit gave her his hand to help.

The king let out a startled breath as he entered the tub. The heat pricked his skin like a needle, then enveloped him like a warm, relaxing hug. He sat against the marble with his back to the windows and held Ella in his arms at his front.

The queen sighed as she relaxed in her husband’s arms. The tub steamed with heat, floating the lavender smell into the air. She danced her hand across the surface of the water, brushing her fingers against the red rose petals. Kit kissed the back of her head and stroked her am, humming contently.

“You spoil me,” he said.

Ella smiled. “It’s hard to spoil a man who has everything.”

“I may be king, but my riches are meaningless without you.” He her left temple. “I didn’t know what real wealth was until I met you.”

Ella closed her eyes, her husband’s words slipping over her body as warmly as the water they sat in. “Is it possible to die from happiness?” she wondered out loud.

Kit chuckled. “If it were, I would have died a thousand times over.”

Ella took Kit’s hand from her waist and kissed the palm. As he lowered it, he came into contact with her breast and gently cupped it. A jolt of lust seized through Ella as her husband stroked her hardening nipple with his thumb. She let out a shaky breath. Kit pressed his lips to Ella’s earlobe, then suckled and nipped on the vulnerable flesh.

The queen guided her husband’s hand down to her privates and rubbed it against her throbbing clit. Ella drew in a sharp breath as he inserted a finger into her and continued kneading her mound with the heel of his hand.

Ella reached with her other hand and grabbed the back of Kit’s head for support. Her mouth was open, eyes shut as she mewled from his touch. She felt her husband’s erection against her bottom and moaned.

“Tell me if you enjoy that,” Kit whispered.

“Yes,” Ella breathed, arching her back. “Oh, yes.”

The king kissed his wife’s neck and inserted another finger, stroking back and forth slowly. Water lapped around them as they moved. “Please don’t stop,” Ella whispered.

“Hm?” Kit murmured. “You said stop?”

He removed himself from her nether region and Ella gasped. She tried putting his hand back here it was, but Kit only laughed and struggled. Ella, dizzy and frustrated with desire, turned and kneeled in the water to face her husband.

“You’re not charming at all!” she cried, a smile begrudgingly forming on her face.

Kit chuckled. “Oh, I intend to finish what I started.” He took Ella around the waist and spun her around so her back was against the marble basin. Kit kissed her deeply, his tongue probing the queen’s mouth.

Ella moaned and draped her arms over his shoulders, wrapping her legs around his waist. “Please,” she said breathlessly between kisses. “Please, my love.”

Kit didn’t even have to ask her what she meant. He reached his right hand between her legs and inserted two fingers again, rubbing her clitoris with his thumb. Ella pressed herself tightly against her husband and moaned.

“Please don’t stop this time,” she begged, thrusting her hips towards him.

Kit looked at his wife and shook his head. His eyes were enflamed with desire, the soft, wet feeling of her privates making his cock as hard as granite. “Tell me again if you enjoy it,” he whispered.

“Yes,” Ella said, closing her eyes. She tilted her head back and he stroked harder.

“You feel incredible,” Kit breathed. He took her breast with his free hand and kissed it, licking and sucking on the nipple.

Ella’s toes curled as her husband pleasured her. She felt she truly would die from so much intense pleasure, but then he hit that wonderful spot inside of her and she cried out, her body stiffening as blankets of pleasure folded over her again and again.

Kit slowed his strokes and raised his head from her breast. The greatest part of his day wasn’t eating lavish food or swinging a sword or wearing fines clothes—the best part, by far, was watching Ella get so much desire from simply his touch. It made the drudgery and exhaustion of ruling a kingdom worth every second. That, above all, made him feel like the most powerful man in the world.

“Ella,” he said softly.

The queen opened her hazy eyes and looked at her husband. She was breathless, her cheeks flush, a smile dancing on her spent face.

“I take it back,” she said, “you _are_ charming.”

Kit smiled and pulled his hand away from between her legs. He touched her face and drew her in for a passionate kiss. Ella raked her fingers through Kit’s hair, massaging her tongue against his, a match reigniting in her loins. The water was tepid now compared to the heat they shared between their bodies.

When they parted, Kit pressed his forehead against his wife’s and said, “Shall we continue this in out bedroom?”

Ella giggled. “Only if you promise not to tease me again.”

Kit lifted Ella by her behind and she squealed. “No promises, my love,” he said, carrying her out of the bath.


	5. Means to an End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again so much for the amazing comments. I love you guys!

                                                   

* * *

 

Two weeks later, the Grand Duke met Lady Tremaine in the alley behind a decrepit tavern just outside of the city. He didn't give a second thought to the cloaked figure approaching him, until he saw the fair woman's long lips and sharp eyes under the hood. The Duke glanced around to make sure no one was watching their rendezvous.

"Is it done?" he asked.

The Lady nodded.

Unsatisfied with her silence, the Duke reached out and pulled the hood carefully from the woman's head. He gaped. Just as he had asked, she had shorn her red locks and stripped herself of her usual makeup and fine jewelry. She was a ghost of the person she used to be.

Lady Tremaine took note of the Duke's surprised face and touched her hair. She had dyed it black using milkberries, a white fruit with an onyx-colored juice. It burned her scalp upon application, but the results were remarkable—she hardly recognized herself in the mirror.

"Very good," the Duke said. "Follow me."

He escorted her inside the rowdy tavern where drunkards and prostitutes laughed and hollered as they threw back pints. The Duke found them a table in a dark, isolated corner. He ordered them both ale so as not to arouse suspicion. No one in the pub seemed to mind that he was from the palace--many noblemen patronized this establishment when the day was done, squeezing women and gambling and doing other dastardly things unbecoming of true gentleman. The Duke and Lady Tremaine blended in seamlessly.

"Your daughters?" the Duke asked.

"I've sent them to an etiquette academy in Lotshire." Lady Tremaine replied. "They'll be away for a month."

"Good," the Duke said. "I've sent a letter to queen indicating your departure from the kingdom. She'll receive it in the morning."

Lady Tremaine shifted uneasily in her chair. The barmaid came by with their drinks and left promptly when the Duke put a handful of gold in her palm. He stared at the Lady as she took a reluctant sip of ale.

"It is truly an incredible transformation," he said, eyeing her inquisitively. "You look—" 

"It doesn't matter how I look, as long as I fool the queen," Lady Tremaine snapped. "When do we start?"

The Duke grinned, delighted by the woman's eagerness. "I've secured you a place in the palace’s kitchen as a scullery maid. You won’t be dining with the other servants, so you’ll be able to maintain some privacy. And you’ll have a good watch on the food that’s prepared.”

Lady Tremaine lowered her eyes. She grinned and shook her head. “It’s quite ironic,” she muttered. “Not a month ago, that little cinder wench was at my beck and call, and now I’ll be serving as _her_ slave. If my mother could see me now—”

“It’s a means to an end, My Lady,” the Duke assured her. “It’s only temporary until . . .” He looked around the tavern before continuing, “until the deed is done.”

“When will the deed be done?” Lady Tremaine whispered. There was a restless edge to her voice, as if staying in these rags a moment longer truly would turn her into the thing she feared most—a penniless beggar who was looked upon with disgust.

“We must move slowly,” the Duke said. “If we don’t want to arouse suspicion, we must let the kitchen staff get used to you, first. I’ve told them your name is Morgana and you’ve come from Cœur de Foret. You’re an orphan with no husband, no children, and no past.”

Lady Tremaine—Morgana as she would now be known—took another sip from her stein. Then another. Then a large gulp. If she must assume the role of an orphaned servant, she may as well have gotten used to cheap ale.

“And we must do something about your accent,” the Duke continued. “You sound far too refined for a scullery maid.”

Lady— _Morgana_ —grimaced. “What if this doesn’t work?” she whispered. “What if all of this is for nothing?”

“It will work,” the Duke said. “You must have faith in me. I’m on your side, My Lady.” He reached out and took the woman’s hand. “A means to an end. Don’t forget that.”

Morgana nodded. She finished her drink in one breathless swig and slammed the stein on the table. She squeezed the Duke’s hand and gave him a stern, resolute nod. “Let’s begin.”

*          *          *

Ella received a letter the next morning at breakfast from a gangly butler with thinning hair. He bowed when she thanked him and left his king and queen to their eggs.

Ella opened the sealed envelope with her butter knife and read the note carefully. Kit watched his wife, her expression changing from curiosity, then to surprise, then to concern.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s from my stepmother,” Ella said, reading the note over again. “She’s left the kingdom with her daughters. She’s given my father’s house back to me.”

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” Kit said.

Ella lowered the note, her brows crinkled. “Yes, but . . .it’s just odd, them leaving so suddenly.” She looked at her husband. “I’ll go to the house this afternoon. Make sure everything is all right.”

Kit nodded. “Take the Captain with you.”

Ella grinned knowingly. “I think my maid, Dagny, has a crush on the Captain. She was talking about him all morning.”

Kit chuckled. “I caught her watching us fencing in the garden yesterday.”

“Perhaps I’ll bring her, as well,” Ella said. “I won’t rest until she’s as incandescently happy as we are.”

*          *          *

True enough, the young maid did nothing on the carriage ride to the manor but gush about the Captain. “He has such a wonderful smile,” she said. “And he’s so _tall_! And his voice is like rich buttercream.”

Ella giggled. She enjoyed her new female companion, often to the point where she forgot Dagny was being paid to cater to her. Even so, there was no dishonesty in Dagny’s company. They had, in fact, many things in common—both coming from humble beginnings, both losing their mother at a young age, both burdened by hard work with little thanks. Ella knew that, even if Dagny was not her chambermaid, they would have easily become good friends on their own.

“Do you think there’s a chance the Captain could like me?” Dagny asked meekly.

Ella smiled brightly. “There is hardly a gentleman in the county who would not be charmed by you.”

Dagny blushed and pulled her shawl closer around herself. As the carriage came to a stop at the manor, Ella’s face lit up and she opened the door before the wheels even came to a complete stop.

“You Majesty, your dress!” Dagny cried, jumping to catch the queen’s train before hit the mud.

But Ella barely heard her. She could hardly container her excitement of finally having her father’s house back. The chipped paint on the window was hers. The crooked shingle by the tower was hers. The chicken coop and the herb garden and the library and the paintings and the light fixtures—all of it was finally her own property. She could fix it up a little, air the house out of the strong perfume and harsh words of her step-family, turn it into a place of peace and kindness. An orphanage, perhaps. Or a safe domain for those needing work and shelter.

Ella walked through the stone archway of the gravel pathway, her dress billowing behind her and Dagny hurrying to catch up. Ella stopped instantly. The front door way open. Her heart thudded in her chest, dreading that perhaps Lady Tremaine was still there waiting for her. Perhaps this was all a trap? Perhaps it was a ruse to get her to come inside, only for her stepmother to attack? It was unlikely, but not impossible. The Lady had been so cold and sinister on their last meeting, Ella wouldn’t have been surprised if the woman did something drastic, even if it meant losing her own life at the hands of the king’s guards.

“Your Majesty?” The Captain was behind her, having jumped off his horse and rushed over.

Ella turned to the man. “Could I perhaps have a few men go inside first? Just . . . just to be careful?”

The Captain nodded. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

He wrangled a few armed guards and they entered the house cautiously. After a few moments of searching around, the Captain gave the all clear. Though Ella trusted it was safe, she noted the solemn look on his face and entered the house with her heart in her throat.

Inside, the house had been torn to shreds. Furniture had been turned over, books thrown from the shelves, ashes thrown from the fireplaces and onto the delicate rugs. The prominent paintings along the walls had been slashed with a knife, the china had been smashed to bits in the breakfast nook, and her father’s study was a mess of papers, torn books, and broken windows.

Ella walked around the mess with tears in her eyes, her mouth hung open in disbelief Dagny and the Captain followed closely.

“It’s only vagrants, Your Majesty,” the Captain said. “They must have broken open the door—”

“No,” Ella said forlornly. “It was her. She left the door open on purpose. She did this.”

Ella stood in the middle of her father’s study, blinking away her tears. She rarely allowed herself to get so angry at anything, let alone the sad, desperate antics of her stepmother, but this kind of disrespect was unforgivable. Lady Tremaine was always one to have the last word, and even upon leaving the kingdom for good, she still had to show Ella how much she hated the young queen. Ella’s anger turned to pity. A woman with such hatred and bitterness in her soul would only live a life of loneliness and despair.

Ella knelt down and grabbed an edge of her father’s upturned desk. “Dagny, will you help me?”

The young maid rushed to the queen’s side. The Captain had their small fleet of soldiers helped right the furniture, put books back on the shelves, and clear away debris of glass and ash.

“We’ll have this place cleaned up in no time, Your Majesty,” Dagny said, sitting next to Ella on the chaise in the parlor. “Just think of how grand it will look with new furniture and curtains and, of course, all the books being replaced.”

Ella smiled weakly. Though her heart was heavy at seeing her childhood home ravaged, she was touched that Dagny tried so hard to cheer her up. The Captain entered the parlor with his hands behind his back.

“The lady is right, Your Majesty,” he said. “It will take some time, but we’ll restore this home just as it was.”

Ella grinned and nodded to the tall dark man. “Thank you, Captain. I’m so pleased to have you here.” She glanced at Dagny. “We’re _all_ quite pleased.”

Dagny blanched and lowered her head, a sheepish grin on her full lips. The Captain noticed the young woman’s color and said, “I’m delighted, myself. It’s always a treat to have such wonderful company in the queen, as well as her charming lady.” He bowed slightly.

Ella’s spirits lifted. It was utterly adorable how the Captain and Dagny navigated the corridors of propriety. Of course neither of them could come out and say they were both sweet on each other, but Ella could tell from the way their eyes met that there may soon be another wedding at the castle.

An idea came to Ella. “I think I’ll take a look upstairs. I haven’t inspected my mother’s room yet.”

Dagny stood with the queen. “I’ll join you.”

“No, no,” Ella said. “Why don’t you stay down here with the Captain?” She smiled cheekily. “I’m sure he would love to hear your theories regarding Gabrowski.”

The Captain looked at Dagny. “You’ve read Gabrowski’s work?”

Dagny rubbed the back of her neck. “Only a little. I enjoy his ideas about man and the nature of evil.”

“It’s unparalleled,” The Captain agreed.

Ella slipped out of the room easily as the two talked excitedly. She told a few of her guards that she wanted to venture upstairs alone to her mother and father’s room to see how it fared. They obliged and continued straightening up.

Ella ascended the curved staircase slowly, remembering fondly when she was a child and raced up and down these stairs with toys or books or sweets. She breathed in deeply, taking in the scent of her childhood when she was loved and happy. Ella reached the second floor and, sure enough, it was as disheveled as the rest of the house. She peeked in her stepsister’s room. The drawers were all pulled out, empty of their bright dresses and hats. Ella looked down the hall at her mother and father’s room, where Lady Tremaine slept. She approached slowly. The door was open a crack and she could see feathers floating in a beam of light from the room.

Ella glanced over her shoulder. She picked up her skirts and advanced towards the room. Ella opened the creaking door slowly. The room was trashed, the bedsheets torn from the bed, wardrobe emptied of clothes, a curious pile of fiery red hair on the floor by the vanity. Ella cocked her head and stepped in further.

Then she heard it. In a corner of the room by a fireplace, there was a low growl. Ella’s heart stopped and she turned her head slowly to the noise. On a pile of ripped pillows, feathers wafting in the air like fresh snow, there was a wolf on its haunches, snarling directly at Ella.

A whimper escaped Ella’s mouth. She stood deathly still, terrified of the animal pouncing. Her affinity for making friends with animals and somehow knowing their thoughts was suddenly lost on her. It was one thing to talk to mice and stare down a magnificent stag, but this wolf was not having an ounce of kindness or compassion for the queen. It was wild-looking—hair matted with dirt, face gaunt from lack of food. Its teeth were yellow white and as sharp as butcher knives.

Ella took a cautious step backwards. The wolf followed her with a snap of its teeth. Ella cried out and fell back against the wall. “Please,” she whispered as the wolf stalked her. “I won’t hurt you.”

How did this animal get past the notice of the guards? And why did it hunker in the house in the first place? Ella wondered, briefly, if her stepmother somehow managed to trap the poor animal in the room in case the queen came snooping, but not even Lady Tremaine was clever enough to pull off such an endeavor. This wolf must have simply come through the open front door, made a mess in the room, and stood its ground when the royal entourage arrived. But the guards . . . how could the guards not see him?

The wolf snapped its teeth again and pounced. Ella screamed, covering her face as the wolf pounced on her. The beast knocked Ella over as it landed on her, its sharp paw digging across her right shoulder. Ella cried out and struggled to get the animal off of her. Its teeth were inches from her face, its neck held back by Ella’s arm. With great effort, she managed to kick the animal off. It ran past her, dashing out of the room and down the hall. Ella lay on the floor, shaking. She breathed rapidly, her shoulder throbbing with pain as hot, sticky blood bubbled to the surface of the skin.

“Ella!” The Captain cried. There was a shower of gunshots downstairs and a loud cry from the wolf.

Ella raised herself up, tears welling in her eyes. She stood on shaking legs to meet the Captain downstairs. Ella was suddenly lightheaded, the room spinning as her vision blurred. She tottered out of the bedroom like a child learning to walk and leaned on the doorway. The Captain was just coming up the stairs with a few guards, his sword drawn. Ella met his eyes, her face draining of any warmth or light. She touched the blood on her shoulder, examined the dark red splotch on her hand, and fainted.


	6. Mateo

                                               

* * *

 

The Captain had the guard with the fastest horse ride ahead to the castle as they lay the queen in the carriage. Dagney was sobbing as the Captain instructed her to put pressure on Ella’s shoulder wound with a scrap of cloth torn from the maid’s dress.  
  
The carriage lurched forward and dashed down the road, flames practically licking the wheels as they hurried. “Try to keep her steady,” The Captain instructed calmly. He was sweating and panting from the exertion of carrying the queen out of the manor, but he remained in a tranquil state as blood oozed from the monarch’s shoulder.  
  
“What do we do?” Dagney cried. “Should we wake her?”  
  
But there was no need to. Ella’s eyes opened slowly as the carriage rocked back and forth. She looked around frantically, her eyelids still hooded in a hazy confusion from her dizzy spell.  
  
“Wha . . . where are we—”  
  
“Relax, Your Majesty,” the Captain said. “We’re on our way back to the castle.”  
  
Ella finally took note of her injured shoulder and cried out. She tried to sit up, but Dagney held her down. “Steady, Your Highness! We need to stop the bleeding.”  
  
All the color drained from Ella’s face as she struggled to recall what had happened at her father’s manor. There was the wolf. A heavy pouncing. A searing-hot gash where its claws landed. Then there was nothing. Blackness and falling quickly and continuing to fall as though she had been hurled off of a high tower.  
  
“The wolf?” Ella inquired.  
  
The Captain could have laughed if he wasn’t so frightened. Even after being viciously attacked, the angelic woman still fretted over the condition of the beast. It was a strength he admired, yet also a weakness he feared. If she could not condemn those who physically hurt her, how could she—?  
  
The carriage jolted to a stop. Dagney looked out the window and saw that they were at the servant’s entrance of the castle. Already there were maids and butlers hanging out the windows and lining the walk to get a glimpse of what was happening.  
  
The Captain carried his queen out of the carriage. “Move aside!” he ordered. “Move aside, make way!”  
  
He rushed Ella through the kitchens, past a pig roasting on a spit and large copper pots bubbling over with stew. The maids and cooks all watched with frightened eyes, whispering to themselves as their kind but little-seen queen dripped blood on their wooden floors. Dagny was hot on the Captain’s heels, snapping at the workers to get back to their chores.  
  
The Captain carried Ella all the way up the winding staircase of the servant’s quarters. He found an empty room in the female wing and set the queen on the bed. Dagney grabbed a fresh linen from the wardrobe and ripped it in half, replacing the bloodied one on the queen’s shoulder with a clean one.  
  
“Stay with her until the doctor arrives,” the Captain said. “I’ll alert the king.”  
  
It was a task the Captain was dreading, but it was now his most important. He navigated the staircases and halls of the servant’s quarters until bursting into the royal wing, calling for his friend and king.  
  
Kit was already in a state by the time the Captain found him, running around anxiously as news spread of his wife’s condition. They met on the grand staircase of the east wing.  
  
“What’s happened?” Kit yelled. “Where is she?”  
  
“She’s awake,” the Captain said. “Follow me—the doctor should be with her.”  
  
The trip back to Ella’s makeshift infirmary was a blur for both men. When Kit surged into the room, the doctor was already there with his stitching equipment and vials of strong-smelling liquids. He saw his wife on the bed, her face ghost-white, and rushed over to her.

“Oh, God,” he breathed, taking Ella’s hand. “What happened? Are you in pain?”

“Please, Sire,” the doctor said. “I need to sterilize the wound.”

The king moved to the other side of the bed, sitting on the empty space next to her. Ella looked up at her husband with tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I was stupid, I shouldn’t have—”

Kit shot a deadly glare at the Captain. “How did this happen?” he bellowed. “Why weren’t you with her?”

“Your Highness,” the Captain began.

“It was my fault!” Dagney chimed in.

“Please, everyone!” the doctor yelled. “I need to concentrate! If you’re not injured or royal, I must ask you to leave!”

The Captain and Dagney exchanged a look, then bowed and exited the room quietly. Kit looked at his wife again and brushed the hair from her face. “My darling.” He kissed her forehead, stroking her hair tenderly. “I’ll return shortly. I promise.”

“Kit—”

“I promise,” the king repeated to his wife. He gave her another kiss on the forehead and left the room, blind and deaf with rage. Kit met the Captain in the hall. “How could this have happened?” he bellowed at the tall man.

“Sire,” the Captain began again softly. “It was entirely my fault. The queen wanted to explore the upstairs of her father’s manor alone and—and she was met with . . .” he paused, shaking his head at how absurd it sounded. “A wolf.”

The king looked at trembling Dagney and the maid nodded.

“A wolf?” the king repeated in disbelief. “Wh-why didn’t the guards do a sweep of the home?”

“They did, Your Highness,” the Captain said. “But they must have . . . they must have missed—”

“You are the captain of the guard!” Kit yelled. “It is your duty to protect the queen at all costs! Did it not cross your mind that she shouldn’t be left alone where—”

“I distracted him, Your Highness!” Dagney sobbed. “It was my fault! The Captain wanted to follow her, but—”

“How dare you interrupt your king!” Kit cried.

Dagney cried out and instantly bowed on one knee.

In the back of his mind, Kit knew he was being brash, almost tyrannical. But his fury at seeing his wife bleeding and helpless when it could have been prevented sprouted a rage inside of him that he didn’t even know he had. It clouded any rational thought he had and twisted his guts like barbed wire.

The Captain stared at his king. He joined Dagney on one knee and lowered his head, though it was not out of fear. It wasn’t a call for empathy or an apology, but a gesture of utmost humility—knowing he would and should be punished and eager to bare it like a man.

“I have disgraced my position on your council.” The Captain said. “I have brought injury onto my queen, and as such, I’m not fit to bear my title. I will relieve myself of my station immediately and leave the kingdom.”

Kit stared down at his good friend. The unbearable anger inside of him subsided a little, and he knew he could never truly let his best comrade leave the kingdom. Still, his wife was in the other room, pained and frightened and humiliated. It was that thought alone that made the king turn on his heel and leave the Captain on his knees.

*          *          *

Ella required exactly twenty-two stitches and a very painful salve that was supposed to keep inflammation down. She was moved to her and Kit’s suite to rest and her husband stayed by her side throughout the day.

Though the maids in the kitchen and the butlers in the pantry were all abuzz with the events of the day, the king made a formal decree that the general public should not be made aware of the queen’s injury for the sake of her safety and their morale.

Lady Tremaine—Morgana, as she answered to now—had been in the kitchen as the fair little cinder wench was rushed through. Morgana had done what the Grand Duke had asked and kept a low profile—she peeled potatoes and sweat over boiling pots, swept onion skins from the floor and stoked the great fires of the stoves. She didn’t make friends but was cordial to those who asked about her day.

As the queen had been carried through the kitchen, Morgana bent down at a droplet of Ella’s blood and touched it. She rubbed the dark liquid between her fingers and smiled, the cooks and maids too preoccupied to notice her. Morgana went back to work without bothering to wash the blood from her fingers. It was her totem of strength, her magical tonic that lifted her spirits for the first time in weeks and carried her through the rest of the day.

“Git that fire stoked, Morgana!” the head cook barked near diner time. “If I hafta see that dopey grin on your face one more time, I’ll smack it offa ya!”

“Yes, ma’am,” Morgana said, poking the dying embers of the fireplace with a rod. _You’ll be the next to die after the queen_ , she thought to herself.

When the days got especially long and hard, Morgana bided her time by imagining ways that Ella and sometimes the head cook met their end. Choking to death by a piano wire. Bowels ripped out through their mouths. Feet cut off at the ankles and left to bleed to death.

And now that Ella had actually met with a bloody accident, it made Morgana that much happier. Perhaps her scheming and waiting with the Duke would be over for good. Perhaps fate would deal her a lucky hand and the gods would see fit to kill the queen on their own.

But when the head butler came to the kitchen and told the gossiping women that the queen was well, Morgana sneered and gritted her teeth. She forced a relieved smile as the other woman looked at each other with respite.

Morgana washed the blood from her fingers and spit in the Dutch oven of rabbit hanging over the fireplace.

*          *          *

Though the cooks had prepared a lavish feast, the king had some simple broth and bread set up to his chambers for his wife. She was still in pain from her wound but wore an amiable smile and was polite to those helping change her bed sheets and brush her hair.

When they were alone with the tray of stew, Ella took her husband’s hand and kissed the palm. He sat next to her on their bed and barely took his eyes off of her. “Please don’t look so grave,” she said. “I’m quite all right now.”

Kit smiled weakly and shook his head. “I don’t know what I would have done if something worse had happened.”

“There’s no use thinking in hypotheticals,” Ella said, taking a spoonful of stew. “What’s done is done.” She sipped delicately and winced. The rabbit in the stew was burnt. “How are the Captain and Dagney?”

The king lowered his head. He removed his hand from Ella’s and rubbed the back of his neck. “I fear I was quite hostile to them both. Dagney was in tears and the Captain seems to have forfeited his position.”

Ella set her spoon down and looked sadly at her husband. “Oh, Kit.” She sighed. “You mustn’t put all the blame on them. It was a strange accident and I implored them to let me go upstairs alone.”

“And what of next time?” Kit said, looking at his wife as gravely as before.

“There won’t be a next time,” she said reassuringly. “But if you let the Captain leave, I can guarantee you’ll not find a more suitable man to keep us safe.” She took Kit’s hand again and squeezed it. “He is a good man. And today was only a fluke.”

Kit nodded slowly. “I know,” he admitted. He put his hand on Ella’s face gently. “But I can’t bear the thought of you in danger again. What if—”

“My Kit.” Ella leaned her face into his touch. “I will use every precaution from now on. And so will he. Don’t let years of friendship be destroyed by fear. Have courage, and all will be well.”

Kit smiled. “I love you,” he said.

“And I you.”

The king leaned over and kissed his bride. When he was certain she was settled nicely for her meal, he left the room an inquired around the palace for the Captain’s whereabouts. He was directed to the stables, where his old friend was saddling up his steed and carrying a large sack over his burly shoulders.

The Captain stopped and looked at the king, who stood in the doorway of the stable rather like a boy than a regal man. The setting sun behind Kit resembled a bleeding heart, the thin white clouds like gauze touched with pink. Would this be the last sunset he would ever see? Would the king be so bold as to call for his execution?

The Captain bowed at the waist and waited for Kit to tell him to rise.

“You’re going somewhere?” the king asked.

“Lotshire, Your Highness,” the Captain responded. “I have family there.”

The king nodded and stepped into the stables slowly. He patted the nose of the brown mare in the stable next to the tack wall, stalling for time until he could think of the right words.

“I wanted to apologize to you for the way I spoke today,” Kit finally said.

“You Highness, you’ve made no offense,” the Captain said. “You were entirely in the right to call me out.”

Kit lowered his head and stared at the straw on the ground. “I forgot my place,” he admitted. “I acted like a fool instead of a king.” He rose his eyes to the Captain’s. “A bully instead of a friend.”

The Captain took in the words and nodded. “Your Highness—”

“Please stay,” Kit implored. “You’re a fine captain and one of the best men I know.”

“I cannot stay in good conscience knowing that I jeopardized the life of the queen.”

“She holds no ill-will and neither do I,” Kit argued. “I know you would never deliberately put us in harm’s way.” Kit laughed. “Were it not for you, I may never had found my bride in the first place.”

“Sire, I cannot—”

“Oh, your stubborn virtue is irritating!” Kit said, taking the reins of the man’s horse. He softened his voice and said, “Please. Stay. You’re the only man I trust to lead my men and keep us safe.”

The Captain’s eyes fell to the ground. He seemed to be thinking of a way to both stay and go, but any positive outcome was impossible. He had dishonored his position, and though the king and his queen forgave him, he could hardly forgive himself.

He took the reins from his friend and said, “No matter where I go, you will always be my king and my friend.” He broke rank and class by pulling Kit into a hug.

Kit responded by patting the man’s large back and pulling away with an understanding nod. “Ella won’t like this,” he said, smiling coyly.

The Captain laughed. “Give her my regards. I’ll write when I arrive to Lostshire.” The large man pulled himself onto his horse. He took a blue velvet hat with a feather in it from his sack and put it on. “My journey awaits,” he said.

“You’ll be missed, Captain.”

“No, not a captain anymore,” the man said. “I’ll be known now as my birth name, Mateo.”

Kit chuckled as he looked up at his friend on the steed. “I haven’t heard your first name in a long time.”

“Remember it,” Mateo said, grinning. “Remember _me_.”

Kit held his hand out. “Always.”

The men shook hands on it and, with a nod, the former captain clicked his tongue and urged his horse forward out of the stables. Kit leaned against the stall closest to the door and watched his friend leave, shrinking into the sunset like a hero from so many war stories his father used to tell him.


End file.
